


City of Dreams

by onemanbellarmy



Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Feels, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemanbellarmy/pseuds/onemanbellarmy
Summary: This. . . boy. . . is my brother? I really don’t like him, Clary decided viciously.There’s something fascinating about this girl, mused Jonathan, a slight smile tugging at his lips.I like her.He was smiling at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever examined under a microscope, and it creeped her out.She was glaring at him like he was the unforeseen flaw in her plans, and it amused him greatly.





	1. Morgensterns, Reunited

 

> He looked up at her sharply. “What do you think it would have been like if Valentine had brought you up along with me? Would you have loved me?”
> 
> Clary was very glad she had put her cup down, because if she hadn’t, she would have dropped it. Sebastian was looking at her not with any shyness or the sort of natural awkwardness that might be attendant on such a bizarre question, but as if she were a curious, foreign life-form.
> 
> “Well,” she said. “You’re my brother. I would have loved you. I would have. . . had to.”
> 
> - _City of Lost Souls_

 

A redheaded little girl peeked out from behind her mother’s skirts. Her keen green eyes, precisely the same size and shape as her mother’s, took in the pair standing outside on the path leading up to the front door.

A smile softened the man’s coldly handsome face—an loving smile to match hers. “Jocelyn.”

“Valentine.” After a moment, she reached out to hug him tightly. “Welcome home.”

When they finally broke apart, Jocelyn’s gaze traveled down to the boy at her husband’s side. “Jonathan, is that you? You’ve grown so much!”

There was something twisted in Jonathan’s smile—something unpleasant, decided the little girl, still hiding behind her mother. She wanted to withdraw from the scene completely, but some instinct warned her that the strangers would notice that, and mark it accordingly as a sign of weakness to exploit later. After all, there was something sinister, menacing about the man—this unfamiliar man who was supposedly her father. As little as she trusted the boy, she really didn’t like the man.

“Yes, it is I. I missed you, Mother.” The silver-haired boy spoke stiffly and formally, his emotionless delivery undermining any impact the words should have had. As he looked around the garden, his features softened just a bit. “This place doesn’t change much, does it?”

Then his dark eyes shifted—they contrasted so sharply with his pale skin and hair, but the effect wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, the girl thought as they landed on her.

“Oh? Who’s this, Mother?” _Is there a rune for cloning now?_ he would have added if his father wasn’t right there. (Such a question would have been dangerously “disrespectful” and “impertinent,” and invariably ended in some especially unpleasant form of punishment, given his father’s clear regard for this unfamiliar woman who was supposedly his mother.)

Valentine looked down too, and smiled at his daughter. This did nothing to put the child at ease, especially asit was far colder than the expression he had shown his wife. “Jonathan, this is your sister, Clarissa Adele Morgenstern.”

“Clary,” Jocelyn amended. “She goes by Clary.”

Jonathan blinked. Normally he didn’t show nearly this much emotion—after all, his father thought it was a major weakness to be so readable; he was being quite the hypocrite right now, but maybe the rules were different among family members?—yet this was a major shock. “I have a. . . sister?”

“I can talk, you know,” Clary muttered.

Jonathan blinked again. Surely he’d known that she wasn’t mute, but she’d been so quiet that he was caught a bit off-guard by the words—despite the venom in her tone, it was a sweet sound, high-pitched and clear, and he realized with some surprise that it was a voice he rather liked listening to.

Despite this second departure from his teachings and careful training, Valentine laughed. He had rarely encountered anything or anyone to provoke so much outward expression in his son, and admittedly it was a bit of a relief to be reminded that the boy did feel something.

“Are you back to stay this time?” Jocelyn asked hopefully.

Her husband considered the question. The boy looked uncertain, for once. Though normally this would be an almost unforgivable offense in his father’s eyes, Valentine had a feeling that his daughter would be a good influence on her brother. Uncharacteristically, he decided on the spot to alter his plans. “For the foreseeable future, yes.”

And even if it weren’t for the advantages it offered the Circle and their cause, it was worth it just to see the happiness in his wife’s eyes as she leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek.

Under their parents’ line of sight, Jonathan and Clarissa were already having a heated staring contest—the first of many to come.

 _This. . . boy. . . is my brother? I really don’t like him_ , Clary decided viciously.

 _There’s something fascinating about this girl_ , mused Jonathan, a slight smile tugging at his lips. _I like her._

He was smiling at her like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever examined under a microscope, and it creeped her out.

She was glaring at him like he was the unforeseen flaw in her plans, and it amused him greatly.

 

The four Morgensterns sat around the dining room table: Valentine at the head; Jocelyn at the foot; Jonathan and Clary in the middle, still glaring at each other.

There was silence for a long while, before Valentine finally turned to his daughter. “So, Clarissa, what kinds of things have you been studying?”

“Studying?” She looked at her mother.

“Clary’s not ready for all that yet,” Jocelyn said.

“When Jonathan was her age—”

“Clary isn’t Jonathan.” The words were calm enough, but Valentine knew that look in her eyes, warning him to back off the subject for now.

He turned to the child again. “So what have you been doing, then?”

When Jocelyn nodded, Clary took a breath. “I like to draw.” Apparently done participating in the conversation, she went back to pushing the food around on her plate, occasionally darting a wary glance across the table at Jonathan.

Drawing. Well, it could be worse. Nonetheless, Valentine sighed. Clearly he needed to spend more time with the girl if he wanted to make a proper Shadowhunter out of her.

“What about you, Jonathan?” Jocelyn asked. “What do you like to do?”

The boy considered. “I like training.”

“Training?” Clary looked up, interested. “For what?”

“To be a Shadowhunter, of course.”

Clary nodded, bored again. She knew what Shadowhunters were, and that her mother was one. What she didn’t understand was why anyone would want to spend all their time hunting dangerous demons.

As Jonathan poked at his meal, his sleeve slipped and Clary caught a glimpse of something on his wrist.

Jocelyn had seen it too. “Have you gotten your first Marks yet, Jonathan?”

Glancing at his father, Jonathan nodded warily.

“Valentine, he’s seven years old.”

“He was ready” was the simple reply. “Jonathan, tell your mother how many demons you’ve killed.”

Shocked, Jocelyn watched her son, waiting.

He shrugged. “Three.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Jocelyn looked across the table at her husband. _We’ll talk about this later._

Clary was intrigued by his nonchalance. “Was it hard?” she asked, forgetting her dislike of him.

“Not particularly.” He shrugged again. But he noticed the beginnings of new respect in his sister’s green eyes, and he couldn’t help liking the way it made him feel.

 

When dinner ended, Valentine and Jocelyn disappeared into the study, leaving their children with the simple instruction to behave.

They stood in the hallway, still not quite sure what to make of each other.

“Do you want to see your room?” Clary finally asked, suddenly shy.

“Sure.” The last time Jonathan had been in the manor, they hadn’t stayed long enough for him to begin to think of the room as his own.

She led him upstairs, “It’s this one,” she finally said.

“Thanks.” He nodded and went inside, finding it as bare as he’d left it.

She hovered in the doorway, looking unsure.

He hesitated, not sure what to say. “Did you want something?”

Clary startled, then shook her head. Without meeting his eyes, she whispered something he barely caught, and left.

Jonathan smiled.  _Good night,_  she’d said.


	2. Brother & Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sibling bonding.

> Her jaw tightened. “And how do you know I wouldn’t?”
> 
> He laughed. “Because you’re my sister.”
> 
> “We’re nothing alike,” she spat, and saw the slow smile on his face. She bit back the rest of her words, but it was already too late.
> 
> “That’s what I would have said,” he said.
> 
> - _City of Lost Souls_

 

It was morning, and they were outside. All the awkwardness of yesterday had returned in full force, and they were once again uncertain of each other.

“Jo-na-than.” Clary sounded out the strange word slowly, her childish tongue almost tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. “That’s a weird name.”

After a quick glance around to ensure that no one else would witness what he was about to do, Jonathan stuck out his tongue at her. Childish, yes, but something about her made him feel like doing it. “Not as weird as yours,  _Clarissa Adele_.”

She tossed her head, red curls bouncing. “It’s  _Clary_.”

“Whatever.” He flopped down onto the grass, pulling out a book.

After making sure he really wasn’t looking at her, the little girl allowed herself to stare at the boy.

In all her five years, Clary had never imagined that her family extended beyond her mother and herself. Her world consisted of the big, beautiful house and the garden just outside, and the Lightwood kids she sometimes got to play with.

Was he really her brother? They didn’t look alike at all, unlike Alec and Izzy Lightwood.

She had curly red hair, green eyes, freckles, and a petite frame. Her skin was fair, but not nearly as pale as his.

He had white-blond locks that hung down, flat, around his face. His eyes were black—mysterious, impenetrable, cold. He was taller and clearly stronger than her. And he was a  _boy._

“Bro. . . ther.” She whispered the word, not wanting him to hear. It was such an foreign concept, even more mystifying than his name.

 

“It’s  _Clary_.”

“Whatever.” He sat down gracefully, his back against the tree trunk. Even though he was pretending to read a book, Jonathan knew that she was watching him.

 _Sister_. What an intriguing idea.

Jonathan never played with other children—he’d spent nearly all his time learning from his father. It had been this way for years, except for those few brief trips to visit his mother, a woman he barely knew and who barely knew him.

But this girl—she was someone he could actually have an impact on. He could probably learn a lot by observing her, like how normal children behaved. After all, he’d always been told that he was not an ordinary boy, and thus should never behave like one.

He had a higher destiny, as Valentine’s son.

But what about Valentine’s daughter?

 

“When did you start drawing?”

Clary jumped, slamming her sketchbook shut and whirling around. “When did you get there? You were just—”

He shrugged.

“You shrug a lot,” she pointed out.

He shrugged again, though he was smirking now. “You never answered my question.”

Now she shrugged. “I’ve always liked to draw.”

He nodded.

“Do—do you draw?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Not the way you do.”

“Oh.” Clary’s brow was furrowed in confusion.

 _Shadowhunting is an art form_ , he wanted to say.  _Close enough?_ He kept his mouth shut, though; he’d already observed enough to know that his sister was rather into drawing, and probably wouldn’t appreciate his attempt at a joke.

“Have you ever tried it?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you—do you want to?”

After a moment’s consideration, he nodded and sat down next to her.

Smiling, Clary flipped to a fresh page and offered him her pencil.

 

_The next day_

Following the muffled sound of  _thuds_  and grunts, Clary found herself in front of an unfamiliar door, one she hadn’t known existed in the manor.

After hesitating a moment, she eased the door open and peeked inside.

Jonathan stood in the middle of a circle painted on the ground, next to a tray of throwing knives. As she watched, he picked one up and launched it at the target painted on the far wall.

It landed just outside the innermost circle of the target.

Without turning around, he said, “I know you’re there, Clarissa.”

“It’s Clary,” she reminded him.

“Clary,” he amended. “What are you doing, anyway?”

She shrank back a little, unsettled by the intensity of his gaze. “Just watching. Is—is that okay?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Come on in.”

Nodding resolutely, she stepped inside and shut the door.

Picking up another knife, he hesitated. “Do you—do you want to give it a try?”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

Before he could change his mind, Jonathan nodded and offered her the knife—hilt first, as he’d been taught.

She met him halfway, stepping into the painted circle with him.

He placed it in her hand, adjusting her grip meticulously. “It’s really not all that hard. You draw back your arm”—he took her by the elbow, correcting the movement—”and when you release, make sure you follow through with your fingers.”

When he let go and stepped away to give her room to throw, she gripped the knife a little tighter and did her best to follow his instructions.

The knife thudded into the floor, just a foot away from where they stood.

He studied it, his face expressionless.

Worried, Clary watched him, thoughts racing. What was he thinking? Maybe he didn’t want to spend time with her anymore? Clearly he was far more talented than she would ever be, and she could already tell that this kind of thing mattered to him.

Finally he turned back to her, and she was surprised—and relieved—to find that he was smiling.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?”

 

_A week later_

Jonathan sat with his back against the training room wall, Clary’s sketchbook in his hands. He flipped through the pages as Clary threw knife after knife at the target, each coming closer and closer to the painted target. Her aim was still far from perfect, but she was improving every day.

The last knife found its way into the outermost ring of the target, and she turned to Jonathan, grinning, flushed with success. “Jonathan! Did you—”

He looked up, eyebrows raised.

“Is—is that my sketchbook?”

He nodded, not seeing the problem.

Indignantly she reached for it, and he gave it up easily.

As she hugged the book to her chest, he had the vague impression that he’d done something wrong. “I saw your throw,” he offered. “You’re getting better.”

She didn’t answer.

“Clary?”

“You can’t just take my sketchbook,” she blurted. “It’s mine, and it’s private, and you had  _no right_ —”

“Oh.”  _So that’s what’s bothering her._ ”I’m—how can I make it up to you?” Because as Valentine had told him time and time again, “sorry” doesn’t fix everything.

“You can ‘pologize.”

“I’m sorry for taking your sketchbook, and looking through it without asking you first.”

She nodded. “Jonathan, you can’t just take other people’s things.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“But did you mean it?”

“Mean it?” He was puzzled. Hadn’t he already apologized?

“You don’t  _feel_  sorry, do you?”

He was surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Mommy said you don’t feel things like nor—like I do.” Despite her displeasure and confusion, though, Clary wasn’t in the habit of holding grudges. And over the past few days, she’d come to like her brother, odd as he was sometimes. “But she said that’s just how you are. So I forgive you.”


	3. A Tale of Two Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Jace, though that's not his name yet.

> [Jace] reminded her of a lion, with his wide-spaced, light-colored eyes, and that tawny gold hair.
> 
> - _City of Bones_
> 
>  
> 
> He was a study in contrasts, something to be painted in shades of black, white, and gray, with splashes of gold here and there like his eyes, for an accent color _—_
> 
> - _City of Glass_
> 
>  
> 
> Their eyes were so close together, she could see the pattern of gold and darker gold in his irises, like a mosaic opal.
> 
> _-City of Lost Souls_

 

_A year later_

The day finally came when Clary could consistently hit the painted target, if not the inside ring.

Closing his sketchbook on a meticulously sketched rune, Jonathan looked up as she began retrieving the knives for another round of practice. “Want to go test those newfound skills?”

“Where?”

He shrugged, having spoken on the impulse of the moment (exactly as he had been taught not to do, but by this point he didn’t really care about that anymore). “Outside. Somewhere.”

“Yeah!” A wide grin spread across her face, revealing the dimples that he’d gradually become accustomed to seeing.

Smiling himself, Jonathan reached for one of the smaller weapons belts.

 

“What are you aiming at?”

“Whatever I can hit” was the careless reply.

“But what if you hit a person?”

He scoffed. “Most people don’t hang out in Brocelind Forest for any reason. It’s highly unlikely that anyone else is in the forest today, let alone in this area.”

Looking thoughtful, Clary nodded, pretending that she followed his logic perfectly. “If you say so.”

“And,” Jonathan couldn’t resist adding, “even if there was a person, I wouldn’t hit them. Not by accident—I’m too good for that.” Now, if I was trying, on the other hand—

This argument was one his sister had no trouble understanding. “Def’nitely.”

Jonathan turned away to hide a grin. She’d picked up that word from him recently, and she trotted it out every chance she got; it was rather cute. (A word he never thought he’d use.)

“This tree should do.”

“For knife-throwing practice?”

“Yeah, and archery.” Jonathan hooked an arrow onto his bow with a grimace. “By the angel Raziel, I hate these things.”

“Why?”

They’re too subtle. I prefer knives, how they draw blood, how they do plenty of damage even if you miss. Instead of saying any of this, he shrugged. “I just do.”

“Trade you,” she offered, pulling a throwing knife from her weapons belt. “C’mon, I wanna try archery!”

Though he was, by his father’s orders, supposed to be perfecting his archery skills, Jonathan grinned and handed his sister the bow and quiver.

 

Hours passed before either of the Morgenstern siblings looked up and realized the sun was setting.

“We should—” Clary frowned, noticing that her brother was scanning the surrounding trees. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Jonathan? What is it?”

“Not sure,” he murmured. Was that a flash of something blond? It was too golden and too low to the ground to be their father—Valentine was tall, with pale blond hair that he’d passed on to his son—so there was that, at least.

But unknowns were dangerous too.

“Is someone there?” Clary called.

Though Jonathan rather wanted to throw something at her for being so recklessly stupid, he settled for adjusting his grip on a knife, readying himself to throw it at whoever was out there.

“Who’re you?”

A gleam of silver streaked past Clary, aimed in the direction of the voice. It landed harmlessly in the underbrush.

“Jonathan! You said you wouldn’t hit a person!”

“Maybe it wasn’t a person.” His mind mulled over the possibilities: Demon. Vampire. Werewolf. Faerie. Warlock. “Just because it talks doesn’t make it a person, Clary. You, show yourself!”

A boy about their age revealed himself, stepping around a tree to confront them. “I am a person, just for the record.”

The artist in Clary first noticed his golden hair—blond like her brother’s, but it was a color that just seemed to have more life than Jonathan’s white-blond locks. And he had amber eyes, a shade she’d never seen before (though, admittedly, it wasn’t as though she’d encountered all that many people, let alone a variety of eye colors).

Jonathan watched his sister attentively, though he kept an eye on the strange boy. Their father would probably have wanted him to strike first, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what Clary would do, and that she might actually be rather appalled if he did attack this boy. He was tempted, though—not just because of Valentine’s teachings, but because of the way his sister was observing him.

She looked a bit older than her six years as she considered the stranger. Then she opened her mouth and sounded like herself again as she asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy’s gaze shifted to her brother. “Jonathan.”

“Yes?”

A sarcastic smirk twisted his mouth. “No, that’s my name. Jonathan.”

 _Well, isn’t that just—_  The Morgenstern heir exhaled to keep from throwing something as his sister chatted up the intruder.

But he couldn’t help thinking, childish as the sentiment was,  _We were here first._

 

“Jonathan, did you hear that? Jonathan — Jonathan Morgenstern!”

“What?” he responded—stated, more than asked—flatly.

“He has the same middle name as you, too! Isn’t that so cool?”

“Cool” isn’t how I’d put it. Creepy, more like. Or suspicious. ”Really? Jonathan Christopher? At least tell me his last name’s not ‘Morgenstern.’“

“No, it’s not. It’s We—Wray—”

“Wayland,” supplied the other Jonathan, looking amused. (For some reason Jonathan felt an urge to hit him. Who did this boy think he was, stealing Jonathan’s name and laughing at his sister?)

“Right.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but then Jonathan had been studying Nephilim genealogies recently, so really he could have said any Shadowhunter name and Jonathan would probably recognize it.

Clary glanced at the horizon line disappointedly. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” Her brother stood up, offering her a hand.

She took it and pulled herself up, brushing leaves off her skirt. “Bye, Other Jonathan. We’ll see you soon, right?”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” he said, looking pathetically hopeful (or so Jonathan Morgenstern thought). “Will you be here?”

“Def-i-nitely.” Clary grinned, and hesitantly he smiled back.

“Come on, Clary.” Still holding her hand, Clary’s brother pulled her off, away from strange boys with suspiciously charming smiles and suspicious names.

 

“And he’s seven years old, and he plays the piano, and—”

“By the Angel, Clary, you don’t need to write his biography.”

“Jonathan, you’re not curious about him at all? Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Are you jee—jay—what’s the word?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what word she was searching for.

“Jee-louse,” she finally pronounced triumphantly.

He had to smile, just a little. “It’s ‘jealous.’“

“Tomato, to _mah_ to,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue. She didn’t actually know exactly what the saying meant, but she’d heard Jonathan use it when their parents corrected his pronunciation or word choice.

“Oh, grow up.”

“I’d rather not,” she imitated him.

“Oh, that’s really mature.”

“That’s really mature.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re impossible.”

He shook his head, and she copied him. At this point they were both laughing.

 

As they approached the manor, Jonathan grew serious again. “Clary, you do know we can’t tell Father or Mother about him?”

“Why?”

He wasn’t quite sure how to express his vague ideas about the golden boy—the other Jonathan—but instinct told him that their parents shouldn’t know about this chance meeting. And Jonathan Morgenstern’s instinct was very rarely wrong.

But in the end, it didn’t matter whether they told.

Valentine and Jocelyn were waiting in the foyer when the siblings arrived. They wore matching stern expressions, and Jonathan braced himself for a “talking-to.” (From their mother, this meant an actual talking-to. From their father, though, this meant a beating.)

“Where have you been?” Jocelyn asked quietly, in the way that Clary knew was an indicator of her disappointment.

“Out.” Jonathan looked defiant, and Clary tried with limited success to mimic his self-assured stance.

“Where, exactly, have you been?”

“I told you, Father. Out.” Jonathan dared a peek at his father, and froze when he saw the fresh rune on Valentine’s right hand.

His father looked satisfied. “You’ve figured it out, I presume.”

“You were tracking us.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, and for good reason. I saw exactly what happened, Jonathan.”

“Yippee for you.” (A response he’d learned from his sister. Juvenile, yes, but it got the point across beautifully.)

“In light of this, I will allow you to reconsider your answer to my question.”

Jonathan pretended to think for about half a second. “Hmm—”

“We met a boy,” Clary blurted.

“Clary!”

She clapped her hands to her mouth. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

To their surprise and suspicion, their father smiled. “Did he tell you his name?”

Clary’s eyes lit up. “Jonathan. Jonathan Christopher Wayland. It’s so cool!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Valentine knelt to meet her eyes, and she fidgeted but didn’t shy away. “Tomorrow, do you think you could bring him here?”

“Really?” A smile spread across her face.

Valentine nodded, grim-faced now. “I need to speak with him.”

 

_Next day_

“What does Father want to tell him?” Receiving no answer, Clary looked over at her silent companion. “Jonathan?”

Gaze still fixed determinedly ahead, he didn’t respond.

“Are you ignoring me?”

He finally spoke when they reached the “Oh, sorry, were you talking to me? Because you called ‘Jonathan,’ so I wasn’t sure if you meant him or me.”

“He’s not here,” Clary pointed out, not unreasonably.

A new voice joined the conversation. “He is now—if you’re talking about me.”

“Hi, Jonathan!”

Less friendly, her brother cut right to the point. “Our father wants to speak with you.”

“Your father?”

Valentine Morgenstern’s son nodded grimly.

 

“Aren’t you coming?” Clary asked, noticing her new friend’s hesitation at their front door.

He hesitated, then nodded resolutely.

Face impassive, the older Jonathan led the way to their father’s study. When they reached it, he knocked twice on the door and turned to his sister. “We should go.”

“Why?”

“I believe Father will want—”

“—to speak with the three of you, together.”

Hiding his surprise and resentment, Jonathan Morgenstern nodded. “As you wish, Father.” The younger two followed him inside cautiously.

“So,” Valentine began.

The younger boy finally looked up at him, and froze in surprise. “Father?”

He inclined his head. “Jonathan.”

“What—what’s going on?” the older Jonathan wanted to know.

Valentine sighed, thanking Raziel that he’d already planned ahead for this possibility. “Jonathan Christopher, Clarissa, this is Jonathan Wayland.”

He gave them a short, heavily adapted version of the story: When his wife died in childbirth, Michael Wayland—one of Valentine’s closest friends—decided to raise their son on his own. But his grief was so strong that it made him reckless in battle, and eventually a demon got the better of him. That left Jonathan an orphan, but luckily his father had provided for this and made Valentine swear to look after the boy—which he had done.

“You were never meant to think your name was Jonathan Christopher, though,” Valentine concluded. “You must have found one of my records about my biological son.”

The boys were silent, processing all this.

Shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot, Clary looked from one to the other in hopes of an explanation. When none came, she turned to her—their—father. “What now?” She wanted to know.

“What do you mean, Clarissa?”

“Can he live with us?”

 _As if he were a stray mongrel,_ her brother thought resentfully.

“That is something I will discuss with your mother. In the meantime, why don’t you three go. . . play.”

They left the study quickly, grateful the ordeal was over.

 

Perhaps because she didn’t understand exactly what was going on, Clary was the most enthusiastic about this turn of events. “I think my mommy will say yes, she’s really nice,” she chatted excitedly as they headed outside. “And then you can live with us!”

He managed a passably cheerful smile and nod.

"It'll be lots of fun!" she persisted.

"Yeah." But he couldn't shake his anxiety.

To his surprise, the other Jonathan offered him a tight nod—a tiny but definite show of solidarity.

**Author's Note:**

> Finishing this old fic from a few years ago! I've had an outline since I started, but recently I went back over it and decided I needed to complete this. Probably won't be rewriting (yet), so forgive any mistakes and discrepancies in style or whatever.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://onemanbellarmy.tumblr.com/)! ;)


End file.
